Trevor walked down the street alongside Jeremiah, having to step quickly to keep up with his friend's long strides. He glanced up at Jeremiah, then back in the direction of the outdoor court, already shrinking from view.
'Should you have done that?' he asked.
'Duh!' Jeremiah snapped. 'You have to put people like that in their place, and make sure the message is clear enough so even THEY can understand it.'
'I get that, but maybe you should've waited to do it in the game that's actually important. What if he … what if he tries to take you out? You know what they're like.'
Jeremiah laughed. 'Unless he sneaks a shiv onto the field, he's not doing shit to me.'
Trevor frowned. Not all of his fears had been assuaged, but shouldn't Jeremiah know better than him? How could someone hurt him? That's what they all tried, every game. To stop someone that big, they always went for his knees, and he'd crushed everyone that'd tried so far. This game would be no different.
'I can't wait to see the look on his face when he realises I can crush him even harder in his own sport,' Jeremiah said, grinning.
Trevor chuckled. 'Hah, right.'
Even after being dominated, 5–0 without any hope of scoring once, let alone winning, there had still been defiance in Tyrese's eyes. People like him were always slow to learn; you really had to drill the message into their thick heads. Tomorrow, on the gridiron, that's where they'd break him.
###
Ty had slunk back to the hotel after his disastrous game against Stringbean. He didn't tell anyone what occurred, just that he'd needed fresh air, and had gone for a run. There were threats to make him run all the way back home if that's what he needed. He took them in stride, knowing he'd be running a lot once they got back to Cali.
It had been a restful night, finally. No nightmares, just dreams about how to drag the racist giant down and smother him, no matter what it took.
In the morning, an anxious energy built across the rooms, the boys feeding off each other's nerves and excitement, creating a feedback loop that continued to deepen their anticipation. The coaches noticed, ordering the boys to the hotel's gym so they could work off some of that energy under the guise of warming up before the game.
Thankfully, it wasn't a long wait before they could return to the stadium. This time the loading bay was open to them and they were allowed entrance.
With the schedule mix-up, and perhaps starting earlier in the day, there were less cameras waiting for them as the team disembarked from their bus. Still, Ty and the boys were shielded from the bright flashes by Coach Norman.
Ty entered the familiar tunnels, head down. There had been a quiet intensity about him since waking, more than usual.
He claimed his locker, and sat before it, head still lowered as he prepared himself. Even when someone came asking after him for another pregame interview, he didn't react; Coach Long quickly saw them out, once again reiterating that he didn't want any of his boys in front of those cameras.
Kickoff couldn't come soon enough.
Coach Hoang moved over to Ty's side as the rest of the team was gearing up. 'How are you feeling, Samuels? Good?'
Ty nodded, double-checking his laces were tight. The answer, and its silence, brought a frown to Coach Hoang's face.
'Did something happen on your little escapade yesterday?'
Ty paused. He sat up, finally locking eyes with Coach Hoang. 'Nah. I'm just mad we had to wait. I was all psyched up for the game yesterday, hearing it was delayed was like getting kicked in the balls.'
Coach Hoang stared at him, and Ty didn't flinch or blink, meeting that gaze steadfast. The moment stretched on, silence drawn out, before Coach Hoang eventually nodded, satisfied.
'It sucks,' he said, 'and I know having that build up of adrenaline, only for it to dissipate without getting to properly release it can mess you up, so do whatever you need to make sure you're ready come kickoff.'
'I will, Coach. Don't worry, I'm going to crush these guys. This is our statement game right before the championship, to prove we're the favourites beyond a shadow of a doubt.'
'Whether it's by ten touchdowns or a single point, I don't care, as long as we win.'
Ty watched Coach Hoang roll towards the opposite side of the room. He still wondered what plan he had, though the missing knowledge didn't eat away at his mind as it once had. It didn't matter as much anymore. No matter what—plan or no plan—he'd humiliate Jeremiah, even if he had to surpass his limits and beat the giant at his own game to do so.
Once the boys were ready, Coach Long gathered them in the centre of the room. Arms spread across shoulders, linking the boys together in a circle as all eyes focused on their coach.
'Just one more game, boys,' he said. He spoke softly, but his voice filled that otherwise silent room, commanding full attention. 'All we've got is one more hurdle. Every day you amaze me, and I don't want that to stop now. I know you've got it in you to reach the absolute peak, so don't lose your grip in this final stretch of the climb. Pull each other up, together, you can conquer anything. We're a family. Remember that, and we'll be unstoppable.
'Family on three. One, two, three—'
'FAMILY!'
They stormed out of the room, stampeding down the tunnel. Bella urged them on, falling in behind as they raced onto the field. She watched Ty with some concern; Coach Hoang wasn't the only one who'd noticed his strange—stranger than usual—behaviour.
A majority of the crowd welcomed the Dons with cheers, and even Ty's presence didn't draw more boos, though there were still pockets within the crowd that booed the entirely team wholeheartedly; the Dons' victory over the Cobras, and Richaun's bullshittery had done wonders for their standings in people's hearts.
The reaction was nearly perfectly inverted when the Shamrocks emerged from the opposite tunnels. The boos were quieter, a lot more people were simply disinterested. And though the cheers came from a relatively small section, they were loud and passionate.
Ty scowled up at the crowd, searching for those fanatics. Did they know the type of people they were cheering for? Or would their reactions change if they could hear the trash-talk their star giant spewed during games? Some would change, he was sure, but he knew there would be a core base in the audience who would only be further impassioned to hear Stringbean espouse sentiments they no doubt shared; he definitely had to crush them, had to destroy them so hard even the supporters were humiliated by association.
He didn't look the Shamrocks' way as both teams shared the field, warming up with some light drills after taking a lap around the field. Despite the early morning start after the delay from last night, it was still a sold-out crowd.
When it was time for the captains to meet for the coin toss, JJ, Deshaun, and Jay strode out to centre field for the Dons. Meeting them was Trevor Leigh, flanked by two others. One, a stout, bald-headed boy with a face that looked swollen—as if he'd warmed up by swallowing a handful of bees—who would've looked more at home in a sumo contest.
The other was a towering figure, as large as Stephen, who smiled down at the Dons as if they were children, his dark, narrow eyes sparkled with amusement, and his long blonde hair was pulled back in three thick braids.
Deshaun grunted, squinting up at the Stephen-sized Shamrock. It was concerning the boy was only the second tallest player Westfield had, but what disgusted Deshaun most was the braids … that shit never looked right on someone so pasty.
Jay and Trevor shook hands as the head official explained Westfield would have the call as they were the away team for today's game.
The coin was flicked up, and tails was Trevor's call. After it landed, he quickly deferred the kickoff. JJ decided the Dons would go towards the windowed section of the stadium that faced the Las Vegas Strip.
There was no further exchange of handshakes or fistbumps before the captains parted ways, returning to their respective benches. Deshaun glanced over his shoulder, watching the retreating backs of the Shamrocks.
There hadn't been any open hostility, but there wasn't much amicability either. He sensed something lurking under the surface, the way they'd all looked at him and his brothers. Would each game going forward bring as much carnage as the Cobras' had?
The captains returned to the Dons' sideline with the bad news that they'd lost the coin toss. Ty sat back with a sigh. It always sucked to start second, but at least it came with the chance the offence would give him a lead to protect right away. Maybe Coach Hoang would finally let him in on that secret giant-killing plan of his as well.
Stephen popped up, stretching more, ready to get the game underway and strike the first blow with a touchdown on the opening drive. Though he'd have to wait until after the kickoff.
Chris led the way onto the field, the crowd rising to their feet as the game was about to get underway. A rumble spread throughout the stands as thousands of feet stamped in unison. Chris took his place in the end-zone, limbering up as he awaited the kick. He WOULD be more impactful this game; he had to pay his brothers back for carrying him last week.
The crowd's cries reached a crescendo when the ball was booted into the air. Chris fielded it a yard into the end-zone, eyes already searching downfield. Compared to where the Cobras would've been, the Shamrocks were so far away. Simultaneously, they were so much larger.
Chris darted forward, ducking under long sweeping arms, reaching the 27-yard line before he met a wall he couldn't scramble around. There the Dons would start their first drive.
Stephen marched onto the field, eager to get to work, but also eager to meet the man who'd be guarding him. Since their film session, he'd been interested in Braxton Holt for one thing—to see who was taller.
It was rare to find anyone on the field the same size as him, and he couldn't recall ever meeting a DB that could look him in the eye. Yet here he was. Another senior, just one who had been trapped in a different state for every other year of their high school careers, and there wasn't even an inch separating them.
Stephen grinned. 'You're shorter than you look on your tape,' he said.
Braxton scoffed. 'Same goes for you, boy.'
'Huh…' Stephen's eyes narrowed. He adjusted his gloves, settling into his stance. "Boy?" He'd show Braxton who the boy was. For once, Stephen had been enthralled by an opponent's film. Usually it was too boring, the worst part of preparing for another team, but with this guy, he was just too interesting to pass up.
Size wasn't everything, even Stephen knew that. What really set the great big men apart was their skill; skill would be the deciding factor in their matchup today, and while they might've been the same height, Stephen was ready to prove their skills were on a whole 'nother level.
Unfortunately, he had to bide his time for that chance, as the Dons—in customary fashion—started the game with a run. The ground was one area they hoped to exploit Westfield's height, seeing it as a weakness in run defence.
Chris's first run didn't do a good job of proving that theory, only earning 3 yards before he was tackled. Running against Westfield's defence was like racing through rows of crumbling towers and trying to make it out the other side.
The result wasn't a complete failure, but nor did it inspire confidence in the coaching staff, so the next play, the Dons tested how those towers held up in pass defence.
They didn't need to go for broke right away, they were just testing the waters after all. Stephen's quick Slant was covered well enough; Cole's had more space, though Jay didn't trust the gap when he still wasn't sure of the defender's full reach; Benny's shallow Drag had space, seeming the safest bet.
Jay lobbed the ball over the top. He thought he'd put enough of an arch on it, but one of the Westfield Linemen, that damn sumo wrestler guy, leapt up, blocking the pass, batting it back down at Jay's feet.
Sumo looked stout, but only because of how wide he was. He was still north of six feet tall, and like every Shamrock, his arms were long.
Jay sighed. It was a learning experience. Dealing with these problems were going to be harder than he expected, but when weren't they? Every game was tougher than expected. There was nothing for it except holding your head up, and moving on to the next play.
With the count being third-and-seven, the Dons needed another pass. And third down meant Stephen. Jay glanced towards him before the snap. Of course, he wouldn't tunnel-vision on Stephen, but he knew, if anyone was going to help right the wrong he'd made with the previous play, it'd most likely be Stephen.
Jay dropped back, wary of a pass-rush, though not under pressure. Westfield didn't blitz often, content to dig in and hold their place, containing threats. Besides, it was harder to bat balls down at the Line if you moved out of shape around the edges of it.
Chris was kept back for extra protection anyway, though everyone else scrambled downfield. Benny snapped around on a Curl just at the marker; Amon's In ran just over the top of him; Cole shot towards the sideline on an Out at the marker; but it was Stephen's fade down the opposite sideline that drew Jay's attention.
He lobbed the ball over, making sure to put enough height on it to get it over the Linemen. It helped he was throwing deeper. The ball spiralled through the air, and Stephen looked back to locate it, adjusting his stride just a touch.
Braxton was right by his side, but Jay thought Stephen's big frame and long arms would give enough of a window over his shoulder to reel the ball in, even if it was thrown a little further outside to make room.
But as the ball neared, Braxton lunged, without even looking back, he draped an arm over Stephen's shoulder, putting a hand right between the safety net Stephen's arms made, blocking the ball's path and knocking it aside.
The two lumbering giants fall over the sideline as the ball bounced away, pass incomplete. Braxton landed heavily on top of Stephen, though quickly pushed him away, doing so as he stood back up.
'That shit won't cut it with me, boy.'
Stephen shot back up, chest to chest with Braxton. 'Who you calling boy, bitch? I ain't your boy.'
'I'm not your bitch either, but you're about to be mine this game.'
Stephen's mouth launched open, but a flash of green caught the corner of his eye. He'd landed near Westfield's bench, and the other players were closing in. His mouth snapped shut with a click of his teeth. The battle wasn't over, only just begun, but Braxton had taken the first round.
With fourth down came the Dons' punting team. Ty sat forward in his seat, watching the unit take the field. He was up next. Finally, Stringbean would meet him on HIS turf. Stringbean might've gotten the better of him on a basketball court, but Ty was going to avenge that loss.
The gridiron was his home.
Westfield's punt returner was their shortest player, or at least tied for the honour. Even then he still capped six feet.
He didn't get a chance for a return to open his day, simply fielding the ball at the Shamrocks' 23 with a fair catch.
Before taking the field, Ty glanced over to Coach Hoang. Their eyes met, and Coach Hoang shook his head. Either the plan wasn't ready yet, or he needed to see Ty and Stringbean in action to know the final adjustments needed.
Ty shrugged before waltzing into his home like a king entering his castle—his throne room. He went straight for Stringbean, who sneered down at him like one would an annoying chihuahua.
'Back for more, little nigger?'
Ty grinned. Oh how he wanted to break this giant fucker's knees, but no, that wouldn't be as satisfying as watching his smug facade crumble when he realised he was defeated. How sweet would those tears taste falling from such a height? Like raindrops after a drought.